


orange is the warmest color

by sheelia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 1980s, Action, Alternate Universe, M/M, Youkai Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5752294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheelia/pseuds/sheelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“So. You carry a whip in your briefcase,” Oikawa comments.</p>
  <p>Suga shrugs, “It’s a normal thing for men my age to carry.”<br/></p>
</blockquote>(Or: It's complicated being a youkai hunter.)
            </blockquote>





	orange is the warmest color

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nein/gifts).



> For Eliza, whom I have promised an oisuga piece for the longest time. I'm sorry I made you beta your own gift. That's what makes us terrible friends. And I'm going to write every sentence like this. Choppy and awkward. Because I like Gordon Ramsay and one day aspire to become famous for being a hell of a chef. jk i can't cook and i need someone to save me.
> 
> Disclaimer: No idea how monsters work, so please close both eyes while reading.

They first meet in year 1985 – night-time Tokyo is bathed in a light drizzle. It would feel refreshing, just like the sensation of mist on skin, except that it's almost thirty degrees out and inside his jacket it feels like a furnace. 

Tokyo in the summer is a dream, the way in the light rain the neon lights melt into one another the yellow blending into orange and orange into red like a watercolor painting. There are a thousand ways to describe this sight – psychedelic, surreal, dreamy. Oikawa lets himself indulge in the fantasy for a few more seconds. The gash on his thigh is starting to soak the fabric of his pants.

At the back of his mind he hears Hajime telling him off, telling him to come home, telling him to live like a normal man. Of course, it's been a few years since he's talked to him, so the Hajime in his head is but a mere subconscious projection of him. An extrapolation of what an eighteen year-old Hajime would be like at twenty-two. Oikawa had lost his address book a couple of years ago, but he still had the Iwaizumi home number memorized. Willing himself to use the payphone is another issue.

He scurries down the flight of stairs down a hilly street, eyes catching onto the limping creature that just made it around the corner, its golden glow suffusing into the darkness like the light from an oil lamp. He makes it around the bend and runs into a dead end. There is a tall wooden fence in front of him - he could probably climb over it with enough effort. The kitsune probably made it over the fence.

He double checks that his kusari-fundo, a metal chain with heavy weights on each end, is in place before he tries to mount the fence. It takes more effort than normal, the splintered wood cutting into his skin as he uses the momentum of his body to swing himself over. He lands with a thud, his impact stirring the stray pieces of trash discarded along the side of the alley. With a price of 500 000 yen to the kitsune's head, Oikawa makes his movements quick.

He didn't expect the kitsune to be waiting for him on the other side, and he definitely wasn’t expecting this. The kitsune is skillfully tied up with rope, and still struggling in its bind it hung over the shoulder of another man.

His hair is the color of moonlight, and Oikawa’s lungs swell when it catches the light as he turns to face him. Everything feels like slow motion, languid and indulgent. Oikawa releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

The man's skin is smooth and cool like porcelain; Oikawa wonders what it's like to touch. At the same time, he imagines his fingertips catching on fire. 

Shifting his weight onto his other foot, the man leans forward and eclipses the light from behind him. With a good look at his face, Oikawa catches the hint of a coy smile, before the man sprints off with his find.

 

-

 

Oikawa stumbles into the bar and shrugs his jacket off, laying it flat on the counter. The white crane embroidered on the back of his jacket almost glows in the dim light. Underneath his jacket he wears a black crew neck shirt with a NASA patch sewed onto his breast pocket. Thoughtfully gifted to him by Hajime as a farewell present, Oikawa puts on the shirt every time he's out hunting.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath as he examines the bite on his thigh, and how that area was now soaked in his blood. 

Someone sets a first-aid kit in front of him, as well as a bottle of beer. 

"Bad day?" Her voice comes to him like a remedy, and he feels himself perk up slightly.

He forces a smile. "How do you know, Kiyoko-san?"

Kiyoko eases into her usual position behind the counter, arms crossed and weight against the surface. "You only ever come here when you've had a bad day," she teases.

Oikawa unclasps the buckle on the side of the box and fishes around for a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of bandages. He dabs his wound clean and when it stings, he bites down on his lip.

"Somebody stole my target tonight," he spits out, his anger mixing with the pain from the bite on his thigh. He can’t tell if he’s upset or angry. 

"Another hunter?" Kiyoko asks, taking the first aid kit with her after Oikawa finished dressing his wound. Oikawa waits for her to return before he replies.

The young man looked ethereal, from the way he held his body with grace to the way he cast his gaze on his surroundings. From the look in his eyes though, Oikawa knew he was human. "Probably."

He takes a few large gulps of beer, swallowing it too fast to register the rancid taste.

 

-

 

Monsoon in Tokyo means air thick-knit with fog and clouds around Oikawa like a swarm. On a terrible day like this there isn't much of a view to look at. The colors blend into one another, like water spilling over ink. 

Oikawa sets down his cup of tea on the ironing board he uses as a table. He leans back into the lounge chair on the balcony of his apartment and sighs. The neighborhood is shoddy and the walls are peeling, but it's livable. In fact, Oikawa would consider this living arrangement cozy, though he admits that there's barely any space to move on the balcony. The balcony floor is covered in different sized potted plants in a haphazard arrangement, and in the corner his laundry hangs above him like a crappy chandelier.

He looks down at the pager on his belt for new messages, but the device remains quiet, the screen showing nothing but a green blank. Oikawa checks the batteries to make sure it isn't dead, just in case.

Kiyoko does a fine job at finding youkai in the area - it must be a clear night.

On the balcony he experiences the true expanse of the sky. It's not obstructed by the large looming city towers or the mass of power lines that cut the sky up into pieces. At times like this he thinks about home.

It started off with a childhood obsession with plastic monsters in plastic packaging, and when he discovered that they were real, his life took a sharp turn. Oikawa is ambitious to a fault - he wears this proudly like a badge of honor. The capture of these beings, either dead or alive, fetch a high price, but Oikawa's not in it for the money. It's for the thrill, the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Hajime wouldn't understand.

In the distance, there’s dull flash of orange light that briefly illuminates the face of a building. Immediately, he pushes himself up on his feet and out of the door. 

If Kiyoko doesn’t find him a target tonight, he'll just have to find one himself.

 

-

 

He bounds down the narrow alleys, the map of the city imprinted at the back of his mind so thoroughly he doesn't even need to think about where he's going. The pounding of his feet on the pavement is like the strong beating of a drum, the music in his ears building to a crescendo.

He reaches his destination and he jogs to a halt, the music in his ears dissipating so that he's left with the sound of his own breathing.

It's _him_.

With a swing of his katana he tries to wound the ogre in front of him. He misses, and the ogre continues on his path of destruction, sullying the concrete walls with black streaks as it stumbles and crashes in another direction. The silver haired man takes after him, and Oikawa finds himself chasing after the both of them too.

He knows these streets, every bend and curve, so when he sees the ogre go down a particular alley, he diverts. This shortcut leads him to an empty courtyard, and soon enough the ogre shows up, its grotesque body slouched forward and its mouth hanging open in exhaustion.. Oikawa charges forward without a moment of hesitation and slits it by its throat. It collapses forward with a thud.

As Oikawa ties up the carcass with some rope, the other man finally arrives.. He's covered in sweat, the fine strands of his silver hair pressed flat against his forehead.

Wiping this sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, he says dryly, "Taking what's not yours, huh?" 

His voice is warm like honey and light like the wind. Oikawa scowls.

"Two can play at that game," Oikawa challenges, slinging the dead weight over his shoulder and walking out with his head high. A part of him wants the other man to give chase, and he's disappointed when he doesn't. Instead, he feels the intensity of the man's gaze on his back.

Oikawa picks up the pace.

 

-

 

"Get yourself something nice," Oikawa says, tossing a wad of cash in front of Kiyoko.

The bar tonight is fairly empty, which is odd considering it's disco night. It might be because of the rain. Oikawa slides into his usual seat right in the middle of the bar counter, wearing his largest smile.

Kiyoko looks at the money suspiciously, then pulls out a single piece to hold it against the light.

"Ah, the sweet taste of revenge," Oikawa smiles, stretching his shoulders back to ease some sore muscles.

Kiyoko sighs, cocking her head to the side in exasperation. Oikawa knows she isn't angry though, judging from the way her hands are already reaching for a bottle of beer.

"How many times have I told you not to do that? Gaining enemies is never a good thing," she chides.

Oikawa smiles at her as if he doesn't understand.

She looks him dead in the eye, the orange light from the stage reflecting in her hard glare. "Oikawa," she says sternly.

Oikawa mirrors her position, resting his head on his fists, "Kiyoko-san."

She relents and plops the bottle of beer down in front of him. She also flicks him on the forehead.

Oikawa shrinks in pain. He swipes the beer into his hand and says, before gulping some down, "He started it."

 

-

 

Oikawa's out on the streets again tonight. He's standing in front of the vending machine, hand fishing in his sukajan jacket pocket for enough change. The air around him feels like it's shifted –  a little too humid for his liking. Something must be near, and both excitement and trepidation build up inside him like a rollercoaster before it falls. He buys a can of cold green tea to dispel the storm in his stomach. 

The can hisses when he opens it, and when he turns around, he nearly drops it. 

"Hi," the man greets, sitting on the ledge of the raised flower bed nearby. He swings his legs slightly, and it kind of puts Oikawa off. "I'm Suga."

Oikawa's eyebrows narrow. _What_.

"What?" Oikawa hesitates, feeling like this is some sort of trick. He's noting the differences, the loose jacket and jeans he'd seen Suga on before are now replaced with a proper suit. His hair is gelled and parted to the side. His briefcase lies by his side.

"This isn't some sort of trick," Suga chuckles. It's a little unsettling. A smile that wide had to be hiding something –truths, motives, a dead body. Oikawa's face scrunches up like he's tasted something bitter.

Although he's got to give the man some credit; he's perceptive.

"Unlike you I've got a real job. Hunting is just a hobby of mine," Suga continues, seemingly unfazed by the series of adverse reactions he's been getting from Oikawa.

"What's your name?" He asks next, moving his hands to his lap where his fingers interlock and rest lightly on his black slacks. Oikawa lets his eyes trail downwards.

"I think," Oikawa feigns control over the situation, "giving you my name requires us to be friends. We're not friends."

Suga swings his legs like a little kid. He blinks, then shifts to look at him with those wide eyes of his, "I'd like to be friends."

 

-

 

"You what?" Kiyoko shrieks, voice ten times louder than normal. It attracts the attention of some of the other patrons, and they stare at her for a while before returning to their conversations. There is a band playing on the stage, but no one's really paying attention.

"You heard me say it," Oikawa sulks, sipping on a new cup of cold green tea. He had dropped his other can on the way here.

"I want to hear you say it again. Go on," she prods his shoulder. Oikawa slumps.

"I ran. I fucking ran away like the wimp that I am and now the world is ending. My world specifically."

Kiyoko slaps him encouragingly on the side of his shoulder. "There we go! The first step in overcoming our problem is admitting that we have a problem."

Oikawa buries his face in his hands. "I do not have a problem."

Someone calls for Kiyoko to make another drink, but before she leaves she slips Oikawa a shot of vodka. She teases, "A little something to help with courage."

 

-

 

Supernatural beings make their appearance as the sun sets and the sky dims. They emerge from nooks and crannies, from the cracks between worn walls and the places forgotten as the unfortunate result of urban decay.

A message comes a little after the sun has set, its vibration ripping across the stark silence like a roar. Oikawa reads it underneath a streetlamp.

The job’s asking for the skin of a tiger spirit that’s just appeared a few blocks away, and Oikawa knows that’ll fetch a lot of money. He cracks his knuckles, and he figures he's up for the challenge. He needs a better place to live, anyway.

He takes off by foot, winding down the narrow alleys. His palms feel a little sweaty, and his heart is pounding against his rib cage like an army marching through his chest.

He catches sight of a warm orange glow and the swish of a tail so he sprints.

"Shit," he curses when he finally catches up. 

The tiger spirit, a luminescent entity with a rose fog that rises from his feet, glares back at him, its body poised in a position ready to attack. It's as tall as he is, definitely stronger, and Oikawa feels like he's come severely underprepared. He fumbles for his sword and pulls it out. Holding it before the tiger, the blade looks like a twig.

He tries not to panic. 

The tiger, unlike the bulk of the supernatural beings that Oikawa's faced before, leaps at him instead of running away. Its shadow looms over him and he brings his sword up to take aim. Maneuver swift and precise, it knocks the blade out of Oikawa's grasp then pins him down with the weight of a house, and in the thick smog Oikawa struggles to breathe.

His lungs are on fire. No matter how much he wills his limbs to move, it stays dull underneath the weight of the tiger's paws. And then, like a miracle, the weight disappears in a flash. Oikawa bolts upright to find the tiger rolled off to the side. In the other direction, he sees none other than Suga, wielding a large whip in his right hand.

He is still in his work clothes, his briefcase carelessly discarded to the side. His gelled hair has come undone from the way a few stray strands hang over his forehead, and his white dress shirt was slightly disheveled. Oikawa’s never been this grateful in his life.

"Get up," Suga shouts. He uses his foot to push Oikawa's sword back towards him.

Oikawa scrambles to his feet, feeling flustered and confused but also happy and thankful and all of these sentiments bubble up uncontrollably like carbonated soda in his stomach.

"I think we could both take him. You and I," Suga proposes, with a glint in his eyes. 

Oikawa feels the weight of his katana in his palm. Alone, it was problem, but together–

"It would be my pleasure to work with you," he replies, his body shifting into stance.

They start towards it without a word. Not necessarily without a plan, but with some sort of intuition that they could guess each other's next steps. With his whip, Suga strikes the tiger at the nose, causing the creature to grimace, violently bringing its head back in pain. Oikawa takes this opportunity to get close to its neck. He tries to make a clean cut to its throat so that he can take its life as quickly as possible, but the tiger recovers in an instant, dodging the blow.

It takes a while, but they manage to conquer it. Time exactly to the strike of Suga’s whip, he brings his katana up to slice through the thick fur, and the tiger collapses with a loud thud.

Oikawa pants, still gripping his sword with hands covered in the tiger's blood. He looks up at Suga triumphantly, and Suga, from his position on the body of the creature, looks down at Oikawa in awe.

"My name," Oikawa coughs, feeling as though he hasn't spoken in ten years. "My name is Tooru."

 

-

 

On Thursday nights – well, technically Friday morning –the bar is permeated with the hypnotic melody of dream pop. Oikawa pushes his way through the crowd to reach the bar counter.

Kiyoko's eyes flick to his chest, widen, then squints at his face. "Did something bad happen?"

Oikawa looks down. There was a handprint of blood on his white t-shirt, dark red drying in streaks. It must have happened when Oikawa wiped his sweaty palm on his shirt, before realizing that he hadn't washed his hands.

"No. The opposite, actually," Oikawa beams. A few seconds later, Suga manages to break through the wall of people in front of him. Both of them stare at a dumbfounded Kiyoko with blood on their clothing and smiles on their faces.

"This is him. Suga," Oikawa points. Suga smiles and rubs the back of his neck with his hand.

Suga sets his briefcase down on the counter, and they both slide into stools next to each other.

"We did it. Together," Oikawa says, his head still reeling from the absurdity of the situation. They both look at each other, and Oikawa feels his heart melt.

Kiyoko congratulates them and disappears into the kitchen.

"A celebratory feast," she announces as she reappears and sets down a plate of warm buttered bread between them.

"Mm butter, the smell of happiness," Suga swoons.

 

-

 

Oikawa watches Suga roll up the sleeves of his stained white button-down.

"Thinking about the amount of bleach I'll have to use makes me want to cry," he laments, examining the stains on his shirt. "It's my favorite one too."

“So. You carry a whip in your briefcase,” Oikawa comments.

Suga shrugs, “It’s a normal thing for men my age to carry.”

His profile catches the light of a passing yellow flash from the dance floor, highlighting the contours of his cheekbones and the slope of his jaw.

Oikawa opens his mouth to say something but the words just don't come. Instead, he watches how in the amber glow Suga looked so ethereal, as if blinking would cause Suga to disappear and take the memory of tonight away with him.

Suga’s neck flushes pink, Oikawa can’t really tell, and then Suga stands up and puts his blazer back on.

“I have to go to work tomorrow morning, but I’ll see you again?” He asks, voice hopeful.

Oikawa nods to the best of his ability and watches Suga leave, waving every time Suga turns around to check if Oikawa’s still sitting at the bar.

“Give me a boost of courage,” he tells Kiyoko about fifteen minutes later. His feet have been shaking in his seat for a while now and he feels like he could talk a mile a minute. Raising her eyebrows, Kiyoko slides him a shot of rum.

Oikawa downs it in a gulp and waits for a while more before heading out. He stands in front of the payphone, spare change in his hand, with Hajime’s home number memorized down to the movement of his fingertips across the key pad.

 

-

 

On Friday night the bar pulsates with disco beats, the vibrations rising up from the floor to his legs and up to his heart. They escape the rowdy crowd and sit in a corner. A basket of buttered bread lies between them.

Occasionally, Suga sways his body as he loses himself to the music. Oikawa tries not to stare, but it isn’t really working. His heart is beating out of time and it threatens to leap out of his throat.

And then the music fades into a slower paced groove, the guitar riffs seductive and the melody psychedelic. To this, Suga throws his head back and sighs, and Oikawa feels himself unravel.

Suga watches Oikawa carefully, looking like he’s trying to drink it all in. He leans across the space between them and holds himself there like the little shit he is. Oikawa's breath catches in his throat as he registers the close proximity of their faces. It’s a challenge, _it’s always been one_ , and Oikawa knows he’s not going to lose.

Eyes fluttering close, he closes the space between them, as though it's been his plan all along. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This characterization of oisuga was heavily influenced by eliza and lark's [Nice to Meet You (I Will Beat You)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5687176), which is required reading.
> 
> Hold my hand on twitter @refois


End file.
